Over and Over
by enemytosleep
Summary: What if one of Mustang's coups went horribly wrong? Written for the Livejournal group fma fic contest's week 25 prompt: What If


It wasn't supposed to be like this. That's what everyone always said when faced with this kind of situation, as if acknowledging one's intentions could somehow fix an unwanted outcome. He'd always laughed at the expression, since someone generally didn't intend for things to go so badly, right? It was merely stating the obvious, instead of thinking ahead to what was next, only focusing on what had gone wrong. Things couldn't be changed. They happened and were done, and all that was left was to move on with life. Until this moment, he had never quite figured out why it was something so often said, clichéd as it was. As he scrambled for footing in a collapsing hallway filled with rubble, he finally understood its glaring overuse.

He wished he'd never had.

The colonel's limp form hung heavily over his shoulder, bleeding freely into his own wounds. He regretted not securing Mustang's arm somehow. He could feel it swinging and slapping against his side, and Jean just knew that it couldn't be a good thing. Then again, his arm wouldn't matter if they didn't make it out of here, and they definitely wouldn't if he stopped for something like that. Best he keep running.

x.x.x

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

Her voice woke him from his doze, forcefully dragging him from the depths of half-wakefulness and into the realm of the fully-functioning. Damned covert operations had kept him up all night, and it seemed he had fallen asleep in the office. He sat up so quickly that he made himself dizzy, the white walls of the room now spotted with swimming blotches of dark red.

"Be careful not to set the office on fire. It wouldn't look good for the colonel."

It took him a few seconds to grasp what she was referring to, the lack of sleep having slowed his brain to a near stop. When he finally did, he grabbed the cigarette from his lips and tipped it over an empty coffee mug, horrified at the long column of ash that toppled into the ceramic cup. He could hardly believe he had actually fallen asleep over his paperwork with a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He could hear his mother telling him it served him right, picking up a dirty habit like that in the first place. He cursed his stupid, half-asleep brain for recalling things like that when he didn't want it to.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I won't let it happen again."

"You'd best see that it not. Now, as for tomorrow, the colonel has granted you leave for your personal affairs. See to it that they are taken care of in a timely manner."

"Will do."

He stood and saluted the first lieutenant, smirking at her knowing smile that was hardly noticeable even to himself. He had no personal affairs needing attending to, and Lieutenant Hawkeye very well knew that. It was all part of the game, trying to keep a believable front for the rest of the military. Lack of sleep aside, it was far more fun to serve under Mustang and lead this double life rather than be bound to a desk or to some boring guard post. He suspected that she might have her own reasons for staying under Mustang's command.

She returned his salute and left, leaving him to his work. She was always so formal and to-the-point, from her understated jewelry and her neatly pinned up hair to her avoidance of small talk and her distant eyes. While at times it could make things a bit awkward, he did love that about her. Not that he loved her or anything - Mustang would likely set his balls on fire if he were to ever hear anything like it - but he loved how consistent she was, an unfailing rock in a tide of change. No matter what happened, he could always count on her to be, well, Hawkeye.

Practically collapsing into his seat, Jean put out his cigarette and rested his head in his hands. The mess of paper that was spread over the desktop taunted him, like it somehow knew he didn't have the brain cells left to finish it yet needed to all the same. He hated paperwork, and he especially hated paperwork with that kind of attitude. That's right, he was tired enough that he could concede the papers had both an attitude and the ability to mock him. It was barely ten o'clock and his shift didn't end until four. It was going to one, long-assed day.

Somehow, and he wasn't sure how, he had managed to pull himself together and finish his work in the office. It had been an agonizingly painful day of form filling and paper filing, and he was more than ready to head home and sleep for twelve hours straight. It had been such an awfully tiresome day that he was actually looking forward to the mission tomorrow, despite its inherent danger.

There were a lot of things that could happen on this operation, and while he wasn't one to throw himself into overly risky situations if he could avoid it, he did have to admit that there was a certain thrill in being involved. He wouldn't ever say that to Mustang though, in case he got the wrong idea about him; Jean liked to avoid trouble when he could.

In order to remain inconspicuous, some of Mustang's team would need to remain at Central Headquarters. With the team reduced by half, each man present would surely need to have their wits about them and be ready for anything. There would be no room for error. So when Breda approached him towards the end of the day, Jean had a sense of foreboding that would follow him through the rest of the night.

"Hey, Havo, I heard you're taking leave starting tomorrow. Can I buy you a drink before you go?"

Part of him knew that he really should say, "no," but another, more basic part of him argued that he should never turn down a free drink. After having spent the last six hours being teased by piles of inanimate paper, Jean didn't see the harm in knocking one back with a friend. It may even help him sleep better. Yeah, he rather liked that reasoning and was sticking to it.

"Sure. I get off at four. Meet you at the front gate?"

"Sounds good. See you there."

They hadn't bothered with changing clothes before heading to the tavern. Jean was tired, and figured there was no way he would leave his apartment once he arrived there. They also had to consider the fact that some women were in fact attracted to a man in uniform, which always increased the likelihood of bringing home a number or two, or possibly, if they were really lucky, one of those women themselves. Well, Jean wouldn't have time for that tonight, but it didn't hurt to stick with the uniform. Numbers were still good.

Though it was rather early in the evening, the bar was already lively. They weren't the only soldiers there, having spotted several groups of blue-clad men scattered throughout the room. If anyone were to wonder why so many soldiers were here instead of home, they need only to remember that it was meal-time, and the tavern was warm and bright, so unlike the military housing enlisted men were provided. That, and it was better to eat here than to eat alone.

They found some seats up at the bar counter and settled in. Jean lit up a fresh cigarette while Breda ordered two pints from the familiar barkeep. It was like any other night that they had come here, yet Jean couldn't help feeling that there was something different about this meeting, something more final. Damned nerves and lack of sleep, he figured.

The drinks were placed on the counter, and Breda offered up some coin before taking his mug and tipping it toward Jean in cheers. He returned the favor and they sat in silence for a short while, taking the occasional swig of beer or greeting a fellow soldier as he approached the bar. Whenever Jean would catch Breda's eye, the other man would become very interested in his glass, or suddenly recognize someone from headquarters. He was nervous about something, and Jean knew he should get him talking. They couldn't keep avoiding the real reason for coming here, and just as Jean was ready to tell him that, Breda finally spoke.

"So you're leaving tomorrow morning, and, well, I needed to ask you a favor."

"What did you have in mind?"

"It's nothing really, just that some old friends are going to be out your way, and it would mean a lot if you could stop by and give them a letter for me. You know how slow the post can be."

He reached into his open jacket and withdrew a blank envelope, handing it to Jean. He had been right, there was a reason behind the drinks then. Jean tucked the envelope into his own jacket, not wanting to open it in such a public place. This was all part of the game, keeping up a front for the rest of the military. Someone could be watching them right now, could be watching them at any time, and they always had to be ready.

"Sure thing, buddy. I'll see that it gets there."

"I appreciate it. Be sure and have a good trip."

They clanked glasses and drank, trying to act like it was just any other night. There were times when Jean hated this, not ever being able to let his guard down, but for the most part it was exciting, like he was more important than he really was. Maybe he just didn't give himself enough credit. Whatever the case, he was player in this ruse and needed to do his part. This meant getting some shut eye before they left in the morning.

"Thanks for the drink, Breda. I've got to get going, though. Early train."

"I hear you. Let's get out of here."

In the short time that they had been there, the tavern had grown even more crowded, making their departure a fair bit more difficult. They weaved through the throngs of people, smiling and saluting casually when necessary. When they approached the door, they were nearly bowled over by a large crowd of soldiers as they rushed in, a lanky, blonde-haired officer with a huge grin practically carried in by the rest. One of them stopped to apologize to Jean, who had been knocked into a nearby table.

"Ah, sorry about that, Sir! Sergeant Connaway is getting married this week. He's off on the train to Dublith in the morning, so we figured we'd give him one last night out on the town before he goes, eh?"

Without waiting for his response, the other soldier rushed off after the group, leaving the two to laugh at the absurdity of it all. If only they were able to party like that. Maybe in the end they could, when everything was all said and done.

They exited the tavern and parted ways, Breda heading to one dormitory and Jean to his own. While it was still early at night, he really needed to get back and get some sleep. He would need to be up long before the sun, and after the day he'd had, sleep was a welcome break.

x.x.x

All too soon he was awake again, forcing himself to get dressed and out the door. He was dressing for stealth today, as he needed to sneak his way from his apartment to the rendezvous without being seen. Pulling on some black combat pants, a black tee-shirt, a black mask, and some black gloves for good measure, he figured he was more likely to be spotted for a burglar than a mutinous soldier. Next was the artillery: his handguns and ammunition, and a protective vest. He strapped a short barrel shotgun to his back, grabbed the envelope from Breda, and deemed himself ready for work. Sometimes he really loved his job.

This was part of the colonel's plan to find out more about the military higher ups, and to hopefully find out more about the late brigadier general's killer. Jean was to meet up with Mustang and Hawkeye in secret as they were driving East to meet with a family out there. He couldn't remember their name, only that they were connected to the Elrics and they would be offered military protection. Or so the story went anyway. Really, they were heading about an hour north to an area that was rumored to be a hangout for an assortment of criminals and low-lifes. Mustang had reason to believe that one of its occupants would know something useful.

Slipping out of the dormitory complex unseen was easy enough; he had done it more than enough times by now. Getting to the meeting point wasn't that hard either. At this time of night - or was it morning yet? He could never tell with these ungodly hours - there were few people out. He moved in the shadows, as silent as the darkness itself. It was too bad he couldn't brag about this at the tavern, seeing how these missions were top secret and all; they were quite impressive skills if he did say so himself.

He had arrived at the designated spot in good time. All that was left was to wait for the colonel himself to arrive. As he waited, he wondered again if it would have been better for him to have taken the train eastward a bit, just in case anyone had decided to check up on his whereabouts. Mustang had said that there wasn't enough time for that, that they couldn't drive to the next train station to the East and then to the North all in one day. Jean would just have to leave tomorrow, and if anyone were to ask, say that he had delayed the trip for whatever reason. Maybe it was a good thing he had gone to the tavern last night after all. He could say he was hung-over. That would work.

It was a bit boring waiting in the shadows like this, however. It smelled badly, and there was so much garbage strewn about that he didn't feel like sitting down anywhere. Plus, he really wanted to smoke, but he didn't want to draw any attention to himself in case anyone was there to notice. All he could do was mull over all the details of the plan while keeping aware of his surroundings. This sucked. He hoped Mustang would show up soon.

Unfortunately, he did have to wait for some time. After nearly an hour, he gave up on stealth and smoked anyway, figuring he would have been noticed by now if someone were actually watching him. When the car finally pulled into the empty alley way, the sun had already started its ascent, streaking the sky with soft hues of pink and gold.

There were no greetings, no explanations. Jean merely climbed into the back seat as quickly as he could and ducked down. Hawkeye turned the car around and they immediately began their trek north. They traveled through the back streets of Central in tense silence, no one daring to speak until they finally made it out of the city. Once out on the open road, surrounded by nothing but fields and the morning sky, Hawkeye finally relaxed her grip on the steering wheel, the colonel slouched in his seat, and Jean sat up and removed his mask.

"So what was the hold up, Boss? Sure took you guys a while to get there."

It was the lieutenant who answered, their superior was too lost in his thoughts to respond. "We wanted to make sure we weren't being followed. We had to do a lot of doubling back to be certain we were alone."

He couldn't really complain at that. Reaching into his vest for another cigarette, he remembered the letter Breda had given him before. "Sir, I believe this is for you," Jean said, handing the colonel the envelope from the previous night.

The movement caught Mustang's attention, who swiftly received the envelope, quickly opening it and reading over the parchment that had been folded inside. His eyes lit up deviously, which could only mean the letter contained something useful.

"It seems my suspicions have been confirmed. There have been sightings of those with the Ouroboros in the slums of North City. That's where we're heading today."

Hawkeye's focus never left the road. She merely nodded as she continued navigating northward. Jean chuckled softly as he leaned over to flick his ash out Mustang's window. It was such a surreal moment, them being on this mission, yet acting just like they would have at the office in Central. Hawkeye was always so dedicated to the cause, so fully intent on their goal, that she had eyes for nothing else. Mustang was always plotting and creating more leads, playing a deadly game that could end all of them with the slightest error...and here he was, Jean Havoc, weapons expert, a cigarette hanging from his lips and happy to go along for the ride. They were such a mixed bag, and he would be forever entertained by it.

They didn't speak much the rest of the trip. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence by any means; actually it was quite the opposite. They all seemed content to move forward together into the unknown, drawing some strange comfort in each other's presence. He couldn't speak for the others, but he was confident that Mustang had the right idea about things and that he knew the best way to get them where they needed to be. It wouldn't be all fun and games fighting their way to the top, but Jean would do his best to enjoy things as best as anyone could. Riding through the countryside on such a beautiful day sure as hell beat filing paperwork.

Some time later they arrived at the outskirts of North City, and the atmosphere in the vehicle became distinctly tense. They all needed to be vigilant. They didn't have an exact address, knowing only that some suspicious characters, more unusual and conspicuous than normal, had been spotted around the old, abandoned parts of the city. Jean quietly hoped they didn't have to go and search each and every damned building, as the number of inhabitable places seemed countless. They kept driving by more and more impoverished neighborhoods, all of them more destitute than the ones before.

He saw stray dogs and grubby children in rags picking through the refuse on the streets. He saw women in foreign dress hanging washed sheets from laundry lines they had likely strung themselves. He saw whores working the corners, even though it was fully light outside. He saw many unusual things as they traveled further into the squalor, but what caught his attention most was the cerulean uniform of an Amestrian soldier.

The man was tall and thin, his long limbs awkward and gangly. His straw colored hair, so much like his own, shone golden in the morning sun. He was walking up the front steps of an old apartment building, stopping to check his surroundings before entering. Jean nearly lost his smoke when he saw his face. Sergeant Connaway, there was no mistaking it. What the hell was he doing way up here?

It seemed Mustang had noticed him too, his black eyes hardening as he watched the stray soldier enter the darkness beyond the doorway.

"Hey Boss, I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that guy's not supposed to be here."

"What makes you say that, Havoc?"

"Well, Breda and I bumped into him at the tavern last night. He's supposed to be on his way to Dublith getting married today. Sort of strange that he's up North instead, right?"

"Indeed. Lieutenant, pull over. We're going to follow him."

"Yes, sir."

She turned the car at the next corner, killing the engine and smoothly parking in the alley. Jean pulled his mask back on, just in case, and stepped out of the car. He crushed his cigarette out with his boot and withdrew the gun from his back, looking to the colonel for his next orders. Mustang pointed in the direction of the wayward sergeant, his intentions to follow very clear.

x.x.x

They made their way across the street and up the entrance stairs. They tried to remain unseen, but really were more intent on not losing the guy. Weapons drawn, the trio quietly slipped into the dilapidated building. It was dark inside, the only light coming from the open entryway itself. There was a set of stairs directly in front of them, hugging the left wall of the narrow hallway. They could hear footsteps from the second floor, and Mustang wordlessly commanded them to follow after. Hawkeye went first, followed next by the colonel, Jean taking up the rear.

The place stank of mold and decay, the smell coating his lungs and nearly thick enough to taste. It was the sort of place one never chose to be unless they had no where else to go, or as in their case, they simply had to be there. The pale color of the walls was stained in the places where moisture had built up, either from the roof or from leaking pipes or perhaps a mixture of both. It had obviously been a long while since anyone had called this place home.

They reached the top of the stairs, only to catch a glimpse of their target as he entered into one of the many doorways on this floor. They made their way down the hall, stopping at each open door to make sure it was clear, watching their backs as they traveled further and further from the entrance. When they had reached the door that the man had disappeared into, Mustang nodded to Hawkeye, who was about to enter first. Jean reached out and stopped her, pointing to himself instead. They had no idea what was on the other side of that door, and it wasn't right sending in a woman first. Not that the lieutenant was any ordinary woman - God help him if that was what she thought he was thinking - but he hadn't been raised to let a lady go before him in dangerous situations. What a shitty time for gentlemanly ideals.

With the new plan agreed to, Jean kicked in the door and rushed in ready to shoot...but there was nothing there. Mustang had followed in right behind him while Hawkeye covered the doorway. There was a small door in the corner of the barren room. He must have gone though there. Jean moved towards the second door, and was about to grab its handle when he heard Hawkeye gasp.

It was a quiet sound, so small that he had nearly missed it. Mustang, who was right at his side, had nearly jumped a mile at her breath. They were like rabbits at the breaking of a twig, muscles tensed and ready to fire. Both men immediately turned toward the hall door with their guns cocked and ready.

"Funny meeting you here like this, eh Mustang?"

There was something evil about that voice. It sent chills down Jean's spine, making him shiver.

"Kimblee!"

It seemed that the colonel knew this man. Tall and lean, his pale skin shone brightly even in the dimly lit doorway. He had long dark hair that was pulled back in a low ponytail, neat and crisp, unlike everything else in this dump. His smile was unnerving and his eyes were coldly scheming, as if he was in on some dangerous secret that he knew would just devastate them. Something about this guy seemed dangerous, extremely so, and it made Jean tense up even more.

It was then that he noticed the guy's hands. His long, spider-like fingers rested on the first lieutenant's arms, and there were some kind of marking on his palms. Jean could only catch glimpses of the outlines as Kimblee traced his fingers over her. Though he could tell that the man applied little pressure, Hawkeye seemed trapped by his grasp. Frozen in mid-turn, she stood rigidly, gun supported by both hands, watching him with that fierce gaze of hers. Why wasn't she moving? Jean made to rush the doorway, but was immediately blocked by the colonel's arm.

"No, wait," Mustang commanded, seemingly frozen in place by this man himself. He stood stiffly, his almond eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. What the hell was going on?

"So what brings an officer such as yourself out into these parts? I have to say I'm a bit surprised to see you. I didn't figure you'd want to get your own hands dirty after Ishbal."

Ishbal. Kimblee. He felt like he had heard of this guy somewhere before. He raised his shotgun and waited for Mustang's signal.

"I have to admit I'm a bit surprised myself. Aren't you supposed to be locked away?"

"Ah, yes, they did put me away for quite some time. But I'm here now, and isn't that what counts?"

Kimblee. Ishbal. Locked away. Was he a war criminal? Damn it, he should know this.

"What are you doing here?" Mustang demanded. The colonel's unease only made Jean more anxious. Mustang didn't balk for just anything.

"Cutting to the chase I see. If you must know, I have a job to do."

"Which is?"

Kimblee ignored the question, instead turning his attention to Hawkeye. He ran his fingers up her arms and to her shoulders, smoothly sliding himself behind her. His smile had become more of leer, the sick pleasure he obviously seemed to get from this making Jean's stomach clench. "And Miss Sniper, what a pleasant surprise to meet you again. I see you haven't changed much."

"What do you mean?" Riza asked, moving for the first time in what seemed like ages. There was...fear in her eyes. Jean's whole body reacted to the sight, bolting forward violently, but he stopped himself as soon as he had started, waiting for the colonel's command. Mustang stood on the balls of his feet, his whole body twitching visibly. Why weren't they attacking? Something wasn't right. Team Mustang didn't sit around and let guys like this have the advantage. Something was very wrong here.

"Your eyes, they haven't changed since then." Kimblee leaned in then, whispering in her ear barely loud enough for Jean to make out the words. "I'm one to talk, though, as I haven't changed myself. I still love what I do."

"NO!" It was the colonel who had called out. He had taken a step forward, his arm outstretched and poised to strike with flame.

"Mmm, I've always wanted to hear the Hero of Ishbal scream. Such a lovely sound."

Kimblee's hands clamped down on her shoulders, a sharp light sparking from them. It was alchemy. Not waiting for the colonel any longer, Jean rushed forward, ready to blow the guy's fucking face off.

"RIZA!" Mustang screamed.

Kimblee waved, that eerie smile still painted on his face, back-stepping into the hall.

Time seemed to slow down then, each second dragged out over a lifetime. The alchemic sparks that had originated from Kimblee's hands streaked downward, her body jerking as if she were being shocked. Her eyes were bulging, tears sliding over her cheeks as she clenched her jaw. She looked ill and in pain, but even worse than that, she looked scared. Just as the colonel reached her side, the first lieutenant grabbed her stomach and promptly exploded.

She fucking exploded.

The force of the blast washed over Jean, knocking him over and forcing time to speed up once again. Instinctively, he had covered his face, the heat of the explosion stinging his exposed flesh. He was slightly dazed, but only for a moment. Immediately, he was on his feet again and rushing toward the spot where Hawkeye had been, but he only made it a few steps before stopping dead in his tracks.

She was gone.

While he had seen it happen with his own eyes, while he knew that alchemists were capable of awesome and terrible things, somehow he had been hoping that he had been wrong. Doubling over on the spot, he had never wished so fiercely that he was.

The bottoms of her legs were all that remained intact. Blood oozed from where her knees had once joined her calves to the rest of her, forming small puddles of congealing fluid on the dirty floor. Pulled strands of muscle and sinew hung over the frayed fabric of her military issue pants, the bone of her legs exposed brilliantly to the room. His stomach hurled violently, that familiar taste of acid burning his lips. When he finally opened his eyes again, it was to find bits of the lieutenant's flesh adhering to his own clothes. He vomited again.

Jean noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye. Mustang groaned loudly as he forced himself to stand. He had been thrown against the far wall, its plaster cracked and dented around him. There was a painfully unnatural slope to his right shoulder, and his arm dangled limply at his side. He seemed incapable of moving it.

Jean watched in sickening silence as Mustang shook himself off and looked toward to doorway. He wished he could have stopped him, could have saved him from the sight. Somehow Jean knew this awful truth would be far worse for his superior than it was for himself. _Don't look, Boss,_ he wanted to say. _Don't look. You don't want to see it,_ but he couldn't find the words, and could only watch helplessly as the colonel took in the sight of her remains.

"Bastard."

That was all he had said before taking off, barreling into the hallway like a raging bull from his pen.

Jean raced after him, wincing as he stepped over what was left of Hawkeye. He wanted to cover her up. He wanted to take her with him. He didn't want to leave her in a place like this...but there was no time for anything like that, not now.

He raced into the hallway after Mustang, just in time to see him climb another set of stairs to the third floor. He followed after, only making it about halfway up when the path before him was set in flame, Mustang incinerating the upper stairway . Kimblee must have been at the top, for as soon as the flames had erupted, the entire wall beside the stairwell exploded. They were buried in a pile of flaming debris like a shot.

There wasn't much time to recover, as the ceiling had begun caving in, its supporting beams having shattered in the first explosion. Kimblee's maniacal laughter wafted through the cracks of the debris wall, his words lost in the muffle of the barricade. Mustang was trapped between the wall and a large beam, the fractured end of which had lodged deeply into his side.

Another explosion sounded from above, and Jean decided it was time to get the hell out of there. His own head was bleeding, the steady stream of blood forcing his left eye shut. He could tell he was all scraped up, but otherwise he felt fine enough. He'd have some good bruises, but nothing seemed broken. Throwing off the chunks of plaster and beam, Jean slowly made his way over to Mustang, not liking one bit the way his face seemed to get paler and paler in the mere moments that passed. This was not good, not good at all.

He finally reached him and began pulling the rubble off of him. He couldn't move the beam that skewered him. It was far too heavy and half buried itself. Instead, he needed to lift Mustang up and off. He worried about hurting him even more than he was, but he needed to get him out of here. Grabbing hold of the unconscious man, he slowly lifted him up and draped him over his shoulder. More of the ceiling rained down on them, and it was only a matter of time before the whole stairwell collapsed under its own weight.

His mind raced as tried to power their way through the crumbling staircase. There were so many things that had gone wrong, so many things that could have gone differently. What if he hadn't gone first? It would've have been him and not Hawkeye caught in the doorway. What if he had ignored the colonel and gone after Kimblee at the start? What if he hadn't seen that soldier from the car? Would Mustang have ordered them to follow?

What if he hadn't gone out for drinks last night?

What if? What if?

What if?

Fuck.


End file.
